


a softness came from the starlight

by smudgesofink



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, but in very different ways, in which both Aziraphale and Crowley are soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 13:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20436710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgesofink/pseuds/smudgesofink
Summary: Between Crowley and Aziraphale, many people believe that Aziraphale is the soft one.Many people are wrong.





	a softness came from the starlight

Between Crowley and Aziraphale, many people believe that Aziraphale is the soft one. 

Many people are wrong.

Aziraphale knows he is soft in physicality–he claims just as much, embraces the plush give of his stomach and the curve of his jaw, the happy swell of his cheeks when he smiles or when he chews, all abundant curves and lacking edges as he tucks his body in tailored, well-worn suits. Perhaps he is soft as an angel, too. Softer than the others in Heaven, at least, given all his time with humanity and their marvelous human natures but there is still an underlying callousness in him.

It is the same underlying callousness in most angels, this cold and heavy apathy, this pill-swallowed resignation to the way things are, to the way things should be. All creatures are Hers, both great and small, yes, but all creatures must die someday too. Death is justifiable when the Divine Plan calls for it. Pain is the only way humanity can learn from their mistakes. Suffering is understandable when it is for the sake of Goodness. What does humanity know of Divinity, after all?

For too long, Aziraphale had not questioned the way things worked and even when he did, it still took the Apocalypse itself for him to gather up the courage to do something about it.

Now, Crowley–Crowley is different.

Crowley is sleek blacks and sharp edges and slithering swagger, he moves in that indescribable way only he can do, movements fluid and razor-thin cutting at the same time. He is loud and intentional where Aziraphale isn’t, from his hellfire hair to his Devil-may-care dramatics, from the tips of his needle-slender fingers to the polished snake skin of his boots.

But Crowley is soft where it matters.

He is soft in the way he laughs real laughter, soft in the careless brush of stray hair away from his face and in the way he prunes his houseplants, eyes mindful and hands slow, despite all that he snarls at them. Crowley is soft in the in-between moments, during all the times he thinks Aziraphale doesn’t pay attention to him–succumbing to the urge and waving to toddlers who gurgle at him, tipping obscenely generously after a meal when their waiter happened to be a little too thin, a little too harried, a little too close to working themselves to death. Smiling that small smile he reserves just for Aziraphale, whenever they pass by old couples who still walk hand-in-hand.

Crowley is soft in his grief, in his hushed, hunched way of mourning for all the children lost and swept away in the Flood. He is silent in his pain as he remembers the weary ones in dirty hospital beds and those choking in bloody bandages, and even quieter in his murmured miracles as he passes by them with a hand and watches them breathe out for a last time. He is soft in his fragile wish for things to be better.

He is soft in his sadness. Once, on an August night in the bookshop with one too many a glass of wine, he tells Aziraphale, “I made the stars once.”

He says it in a whisper, like it’s a confession he shouldn’t have made. He’s drunk, Aziraphale can tell by the flush on his face, but not too drunk that he won’t remember this moment come morning. It’s a deliberate decision, this baring of soul. This act of vulnerability.

So Aziraphale nods, and sits a little closer so their knees are touching. “Yes. So you’ve told me.”

“Have I?” Crowley looks at him–his glasses are off, and there is nothing short of longing in his eyes even as he flashes Aziraphale a smile. Funny how much emotions Crowley’s eyes hold, hidden like they are most of the time. “They were beautiful, angel, have I told you already? Absolutely gorgeous. Shining like anything.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale echoes. He can imagine, from the wistful look in Crowley’s face, that he had loved the stars deeply. Maybe he still does. Aziraphale does not know whether Falling can take away one’s ability to love. Crowley seems to have no problem with it. “Tell me again.”

Crowley does, and they spend the whole night huddled close, whispering in soft notes to one another as Crowley talks of the constellations and how he weaved them. Crowley is soft in his truth, in the raw core of his being. When his stories come to an end, a hushed finish disappearing into one of his sighs, Aziraphale leans in slowly and kisses him.

Crowley takes a trembling breath and kisses Aziraphale just as tenderly in the muted gray of the morning light, and all his edges are gone.

And as Aziraphale finds out, Crowley is soft, even in the way he says _I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> title from W.B. Yeats's poem: "and a softness came from the starlight, and filled me full to the bone."


End file.
